


Astronomical Inferno

by scottlang



Series: J. Moriarty [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Parents, Death, Distant Memories, Gen, Homophobic Language, Mental Illness, Mentions John Watson, Mentions Sherlock Holmes, Munchausen's by Proxy Disorder, Murder, Obsession, Other, Past Child Abuse, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Refusal to Accept Truth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8763973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scottlang/pseuds/scottlang
Summary: Delve deep into the mind of Professor James Moriarty and the thoughts that plague this sociopath's consciousness. Obsession, seduction, torture and murder follow in his wake during his quest to completely destroy the world's greatest detective.





	

        Slowly, ever so slowly, the melody of a string quartet floated in the air, echoing through the highly decorated residence of the ‘Napoleon of Crime’. At least, that is what the grandiose detective titled him, a fitting name in the criminal’s opinion. The flat was kept incredibly tidy, not a speck of dust in sight. White painted walls brightened the area as dark mahogany furniture adorned the apartment. Bookcases lined the walls of the flat, ranging from scientific studies to criminology textbooks, with a few guilty pleasures scattered in between. The tomes engrossed the sociopath, the need for knowledge gnawing and consuming his thoughts and even his actions. This obsession led to a collection, one that Sherlock Holmes himself would be jealous of. Currently, the consulting criminal reclined into an antique, crimson-colored velvet seat, a copy of _Popular Astronomy_ engaging his attention. The collection of information was a virtue that most did not seem to comprehend, much like the petty felons and criminals that came begging to the sociopath for protection. He would always offer it, though how can one trust a man’s word when he is physically not there?

 

        Setting the book down on a nearby coffee table, James Moriarty pressed a thumb to his lip, stretching the thin flesh as he contemplated his situation. Holmes solved his most recent puzzle, and their introductions had been met. Moriarty was even introduced to the detective’s follower, John Watson. The sociopath was constantly viewing and reviewing Watson’s blog, which significantly grew in popularity as days and weeks stretched on.

 

        “I will burn the _heart_ out of you.” The criminal had decreed, their second meeting having occurred in less than formal surroundings.

 

        Tapping the pads of his digits together, James stood abruptly, striding to his office space to log into his computer. There was no trace of the existence of James Moriarty on his personal computer, merely being used for browsing purposes only. His communication to his network came from various hot-spots across London; there was no need to create an atmosphere where it would be simple to track down the criminal. Moriarty had access to technology that could calculate the whereabouts of officers and law enforcement, used when he was contracted to protect a person from being caught by the law. The mastermind could make just about anyone disappear. Though, at this time, he was inputting a search of where to find another copy of _Popular Astronomy_ , a Simon Newcomb classic. What a thoughtful present for Sherlock, the criminal mused. He could encode various ciphers into the pages, it would be something for the detective to chew on whilst Moriarty remained hidden from view. A search result came up positive, leading to that of Waterstones Piccadilly, a popular bookstore that no one could trace to the consulting criminal.

 

        Closing the tab and shutting the computer, Moriarty tugged his overcoat from its stationary position on a coat-rack, exiting his flat in a rather hurried sense. Stepping down a flight of stairs, the mastermind accessed the street, striding down until he could hail a cab. The glossy exterior of the carriage glinted with the reflection of sunlight, requiring the criminal to squint as he entered the cab, declaring his destination before slumping against the cushioned seat. It had been days before the sociopath had left his flat, mostly brought on by wanting Sherlock to feel absolutely hungry for his presence. This breath of fresh air refreshed James, popping a piece of bubble gum into his mouth as he dug out his phone. Glancing down at his attire, the criminal scoffed slightly. The elegant overcoat he boasted did not match the casual grey t-shirt and his brown corduroy trousers, though it would have to suffice for this public excursion. Digging out a pair of black gloves, James yanked them on, adjusting the fingers accordingly, finding a comfortable fit.

 

        Eventually, the cabbie reached Waterstones, Moriarty mumbling thanks as he handed some coin to the driver. Hands were tucked into his overcoat as he arrived at the bookstore, using his shoulder to open the door. An employee greeted him of which he returned a quick, meaningless smile. The man was on a mission: cure the boredom of his archenemy as a way to cure his own boredom and unease. Scanning the bookshelves for the title of the informative text, James traveled down several aisles before successfully finding the book.

 

        “Finally. . .” The mastermind grimaced, taking the paperback from the shelf, dashing his clothed fingers swiftly through the yellowed pages. It amused James that no person had bothered the book in such a long time; from the looks of it, the text revealed that it had been patiently waiting on the shelf undisturbed for decades.

 

        Closing the book, Moriarty tucked it under his arm, gaze trailing along the bindings of the hundreds of other books in the store, scanning for one that piqued his interest. His sharp vision landed on a small book, the spine adorned with the word ‘Inferno’. Dante’s _Inferno_ , to be precise. The corners of the sociopath’s lips quirked into a half smile as he took the poem from its confinement. Treading towards the pay counter, Moriarty dragged out coins from his coat pocket. He was not too fond of digital transactions of his own, preferring to be the virus between the payer and the paid. Laying the books on counter, the consulting criminal gave a slight nod, displaying his off-white teeth in a crooked smile.

 

        “I have finished my browsing,” exhaled James, taking notice of the cashier. Her sandy blonde hair was tied into a haphazard ponytail, strands sticking out in numerous places. She had recently come back from her luncheon, as her breath lingered with pesto and garlic, which the criminal deduced as pesto pasta. The smell caused the mastermind to slide a stick of mint gum her way, watching her delicate hands enter the barcode numbers of the books. She tucked the books into a paper bag, noticing the stick of gum in her line of sight. The woman gave a slight nod of thanks, unfolding the wrapper to reveal the mint treat, setting it quickly onto her tongue.

 

        “That’ll be £25.56, sir,” Her azure orbs stared at the register, avoiding eye contact with the criminal. Whether she was shy or his presence was threatening, it did not bother Moriarty. He simply placed a handful of coin on the counter.

 

        “Keep the change for yourself, doll.”

 

        Grasping the bag, the mastermind exited the store, a smug expression upon his visage. A plan of action was currently forming in the sociopath’s mind. Debating on whether to hail a taxi his way or to take a stroll home, Moriarty glanced towards a café, his brow knitting in response. A cup of tea would not take too much time off of his hands. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he checked the time.

 

**14:22 PM**

 

        A frown appeared across his countenance as he saw a missed call notification. The number was blocked, though whoever called felt the need to leave a message. Ignoring it for a moment, the criminal returned his phone to his pocket, pacing to the entrance of the café. Opening the door, Moriarty waltzed in, the fragrance of coffee, tea and pastries wafting towards him. He strode to the line of an empty barista, determining an order for a cup of Darjeeling tea along with a few biscuits. Paying once more with extra coin found on his person, the mastermind seated himself in the lounge area, pressing himself onto an empty leather loveseat.

 

        The café contained a copious amount of patrons going on their merry ways; a group of school students gathered around a table to discuss the latest gossip whilst an older couple enjoyed a cup of coffee and a deep conversation. Removing _Inferno_ from the paper bag, Moriarty began reading the highly complex text as his tea and biscuits were delivered to him. The mug that his drink had arrived in was adorned with holiday decorations, which irked the sociopath, only slightly. James was not a fan of the holidays, finding the season to be ridiculously capitalised and irritating, though a plethora of contracts would come in around this time. Tense situations in the homes of the average person could be escalated to extreme levels, and the consulting criminal could hide that person, for the right price and resources.

 

        It was all a game, a lousy game that James Moriarty repeated over and over and over.

 

        Overwhelming madness overtook the mastermind at terribly stressful and angering times. Sherlock’s proximity to death was inching closer and closer in Moriarty’s scheme, but the damned detective had the ability to evade his attacks, and it consumed the sociopath with rage. His Machiavellian mindset kept his actions clear and concise, though he had stumbled through the most recent puzzle with trepidation. Dominance over the Great Detective was what James desired more than anything; the funds from his criminal ring kept him in a regal status, which was pleasant enough, but Sherlock Holmes was so . . . invigorating. Noticing that he was keeping a strong, tight grip on the paperback, Moriarty released his capturing touch, smoothing out the crinkled page with his free hand. A deep sigh emitted from between his lips, raising the full mug to his mouth, sipping the musky-sweet liquid, steam warming his defined features.

 

        Glancing down towards _Inferno_ once more, the criminal flipped through the pages, engulfing the message of the reading. The descent into Heaven or Hell, a common theme in tomes of the 13th and 14th centuries, had led Moriarty to question the world as a whole. He had read this story as a youth, when he began developing into the person he is today.

 

        “Are you enjoying your book?” A voice piped up near the mastermind. James was so involved in his thoughts that he had not noticed the depression of the seat next to him, nor did he feel any motion at all.

 

        “I am, yes. Should you not be with your parents, boy?” The sociopath questioned, his lip curling in distracted irritation. The child appeared to be around 11 years of age, his naivety being displayed proudly, such as children do. He was dressed in a navy collared shirt and burnt umber slacks. The kid held several pence in his shirt pocket, the impression of the coins pronouncing themselves on his chest.

 

        “My parents are ordering drinks over there,” The boy raised a finger, indicating towards a tall man and a short woman at the counter, paying for their purchase.

 

        “They did not teach you to avoid speaking with strangers? Mm, how ordinary.”

 

        “Ordinary? What do you mean by that?”

 

        “Listen, boy, you should scatter to your parent’s side, questioning as many things as you are will only get you into trouble,” Moriarty growled lowly, a piercing gaze directed towards the child. This line sparked a darker, troubling emotion inside of the sociopath, and his cheek twitched in response. A memory of the past sprung itself into his thoughts as he turned away from the boy.

 

        James Moriarty was young, no more than seven years compared to that of his brother, whom had left the house earlier in the morning to enjoy an excursion with his mates. Left alone in the rather small home that the family resided in, the young child dreamed of power, of control. He sat atop a sitting stool in the living room, having stolen a book from his father’s bedroom the previous night. His short digits shuffled through the pages, consuming the philosophical speech when he noticed the clicking of the front doorknob being turned. Rushing to shut the book, the boy scurried to his parents’ bedroom, discovering a lock upon the door. An exasperated breath left his lips as he clutched tightly onto the hardcover, his heart beating rapidly.

 

        “Oi, James, where are you?” The sound of his father’s gruff and slurred tone meant that if Jim were to get caught, he would be beaten.

 

        “I’m over here, father,” The child replied, ultimately sticking the book under the couch in the sitting area. Unfortunately, his father had seen James run from his bedroom door, the older man’s face beginning to turn red.

 

        “I told you to stay out of my room, you fruit,” Stomping towards his child, James father grasped the front of the boy’s shirt.

 

        “You fucking liar, what were you doing in my room?” The man’s hot breath combined with the scent of whiskey brought the child nausea.

 

        “I was not doing anything, father! I . . . I was . . .” Trailing off, James swallowed the taste of bile in the back of his throat, sweat dripping down his forehead as he wished for nothing but fresh air.

 

        “Stay out of my possessions, boy, or I will kill you, you hear?”

 

        “Y-yes, fath-“

 

        A stinging sensation burned heavily across the young lad’s cheek, his eyes being to water in response to the pain. Several whimpers exited the boy’s lips, the tender flesh swelling from the impact.

 

        “Don’t you be looking through my things, you fucking faggot,” Releasing the boy, James stumbled to the bedroom he and his brother shared, tears streaming down his inflamed cheeks. Falling onto his small bed, his hands clutched the fabric of his blanket tight, swallowing the urge to cry, shoving it deep inside. Flashes of horrible, cruel actions entered his mind as he sat and breathed, willing away the emotion. These events had been occurring at a rapid pace for the past few months. The young boy could barely comprehend what was happening to him, only that he knew he would find a way to destroy his family in the end. Moriarty strayed from his fellow students, rumors mostly surrounding him and the bruises he wore to academy every day. The other children stared and whispered, gossiping about how James liked boys and how his father beat him for it. His mother would periodically add abundant amounts of salt to his meals, rendering young James ill for days at a time. She would drag the boy to the hospital, being praised that she saved her little boy just in time. His father repeatedly returned home inebriated from a day of stressful work, ultimately beating and hurting James for minor mistakes.

 

        Snapping his focus back to reality, the consulting criminal realised that the boy had indeed left, leaving Moriarty to his dangerous memories. Finishing the cup of tea quickly, Jim stuffed the bag of biscuits that came along with his drink into his overcoat pocket, exiting the establishment in a hurried pace. He had to shake off the past, it did not matter anymore. Chaos was his gift to the world; he desperately needed to express it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
